


Fly Apart

by yaskween



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Second Time, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaskween/pseuds/yaskween
Summary: After a year of working on the mosaic, Quentin and Eliot decide to celebrate their anniversary.





	Fly Apart

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists in the same universe as my other fic; both are canon-compliant, as far as I know. Thanks for reading.

Eliot’s eyes were serious in the firelight as he raised his stone cup to Quentin. “Happy anniversary, Q.” Quentin raised his mug to meet Eliot’s. “To our first and last year at this thing.” Even as he said it, Eliot could feel it was a lie. He hoped the mead would numb the unpleasant sensation soon. 

“Mm,” Quentin smiled at Eliot as their drinks clinked together. His left leg rested against Eliot’s right one. It was warm. They drank deeply. 

“Mm,” Eliot agreed, looking at the patchwork quilt they’d found in the cottage. The pattern looked like a version of the mosaic they’d tried once, the same size, but the colors were deeper. He’d noticed that before, but everything from the past months was starting to blur together. Not for the first time, Eliot wondered if the mosaic itself possessed them with a kind of enchantment that kept them working a whole year in Fillory. 

Quentin saw Eliot’s eyes drift to the quilt and felt momentarily bereft. An old feeling came over him, one he hadn’t felt since magic had disappeared. “Hey,” he started, not sure of how he’d finish the thought. He just wanted Eliot to look at him again.

“Hey,” Eliot answered quietly, turning to face him. He tried to focus on Quentin’s face, the way the torchlight flickered across it, deepening the little smile lines that had started to appear under the Fillorian sun. He was tragically handsome, Eliot thought to himself, brushing aside memories of the night they’d slept with Margo years before. Those memories were useless relics of a life before Fen and Fray and elves and tiles, and Eliot usually tried not to dwell on them for too long.

Quentin wanted to ask Eliot something. “I-- um--” he began, then pushed himself up so his lips could reach Eliot’s. He kissed him gently; the question asked wordlessly. Eliot tried to stifle his surprise as Quentin leaned back and gave his friend a small, helpless smile.

Eliot smiled back, instinctively reaching to grab Quentin’s left hand on the quilt beside him as he pulled him forward for another kiss, surer this time. “You know you don’t have to ask,” he murmured, grinning against Quentin’s lips.

“It just--” Quentin stammered, unable or unwilling to stop kissing Eliot between each word. “It just-- seemed like, I don’t know, the-- polite thing to do, I guess.”

“Okay,” Eliot laughed, pushing Quentin down slowly so that he was lying across the blanket on his back. He kissed Quentin’s neck and pulled the collar of his tee-shirt down to taste his collarbone. “In that case… can I see you naked? Again, obviously...”

He was straddling him now. Quentin huffed indignantly, wriggling against Eliot’s hips, trying in vain to regain the upper hand. “Are you mocking me?”

“Of course not,” Eliot smirked, pushing the shirt all the way up until Quentin raised his arms to get it off. He threw it across the mosaic and raised himself up to give Eliot another hard kiss, more insistent this time. Eliot chuckled and pushed him down again, holding Quentin’s wrists down against the tiles above his head as they kissed again. 

“God, El,” Quentin said breathlessly, squirming up against him, his hands still pinned above him on the ground by Eliot’s. He felt a hardness graze his own, and barely swallowed a groan.

Eliot held both Quentin’s wrists with one hand and used the other to wag a finger just inches from Quentin’s nose. “If I pause to take my clothes off, will you keep your hands where they are?” By way of answering, Quentin kissed the tip of Eliot’s finger. “Good enough,” Eliot shrugged, shucking his vest and unbuttoning his shirt. As soon as he could see Eliot’s chest, Quentin reached for it, teasing the nipples between his fingers and kissing his way from one to the other.

“Okay, new rule,” Eliot moaned, looking down at him. “Do whatever you want.”

Quentin gently pushed Eliot on his side and made his way down to his belt buckle. The shiny patina had worn away, Quentin noted as he pulled it free from Eliot’s jeans. He nuzzled at the zipper for a moment, grasping Eliot’s thighs and taking his time pulling his pants down. He’d been thinking about doing this for days-- maybe years, if he were honest with himself. That was one thing Niffin Alice had right about him. 

“Are you okay?” Eliot asked from somewhere above him, and Quentin realized he’d stopped moving. Quentin looked up at him, searching his face for any sign he should stop, that this was a bad idea. But there wasn’t any; Eliot looked more relaxed than Quentin had seen him in months, and a smile played around his lips as if he thought the whole situation was a little comical. Quentin pushed his hands into Eliot’s underwear and squeezed his hips, bringing them forward. 

“Fine,” Quentin said shakily, mouthing at Eliot’s cock through the thin material of his briefs. He inhaled deeply, the smell familiar. He’d caught Eliot’s earthy, slightly spicy scent a few times in the air, when they bent over each other to work on the mosaic, or when he spotted him on the ladder, or when they slept next to each other for warmth on chillier nights. It always sent a shock of electricity through him, like his body remembered Eliot’s and wanted to possess it. The feeling overwhelmed him now. He peeled the underwear off and brought Eliot’s cock into his mouth hungrily, without ceremony. Above him, Eliot inhaled sharply.

Eliot brought his hand down to card through Quentin’s hair. He didn’t want to be rough with him, Eliot realized, pulling softly at the hair tie until it came loose. He didn’t want to hold Quentin’s head down or pull his hair-- well, a part of him did, he could imagine doing it and enjoying it-- but not tonight, not this time. He felt an overwhelming tenderness towards Quentin, a kind of gratitude for where they’d ended up. He’d never been sure about where they stood; best friends didn’t always make for good lovers, and he’d told himself over and over again he would be fine with whatever Quentin wanted from him. But this was better than the worst case scenario, Eliot realized, opening his eyes again to watch Quentin. Quentin pulled off to look up at him for a moment.

“If you keep doing that…” Eliot drifted off, stroking Quentin’s hair.

“I want to,” Quentin answered, too quickly, as if worried he had done something offensive. “I just need, um,” he stopped himself and sat up. He unbuttoned his own jeans as Eliot watched him, his hand drifting down to his cock to stroke it as Quentin shucked his pants and underwear. Eliot had almost forgotten the sight of naked Quentin. Almost.

He sat there, naked, looking faintly unsure of what to do next, and it was decidedly sexy, Eliot thought, that someone that good-looking could be bashful. He sat up and moved towards Quentin. They stared at each other for a moment, breathing heavily in the darkness and listening to the fire crackle. Then Eliot hugged him, because it was what he wanted first.

Quentin hugged him back, tightly, and when he pulled away he saw that Eliot’s face was wet. “You’re crying,” Eliot said, sniffling, and touched his cheek.

“You, too,” Quentin answered, swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat. Eliot turned Quentin’s chin up and kissed along his jawline to his ear, then Quentin turned so that their lips met. The kiss deepened, and Eliot reached down to touch his cock. Quentin kissed him harder, biting his lip and sliding his tongue into Eliot’s mouth. Eliot gripped him tighter and Quentin gasped. He reached for Eliot and slid his legs apart so they could move closer. Eliot rocked against him, pressing his forehead into Quentin’s shoulder, closing his eyes to concentrate.  Quentin turned to kiss Eliot’s hair as they fumbled with each other, hands clasping around each other’s cocks, finding the right rhythm.

“Is this how you want it?” Eliot asked, his hand closing around them both. He was slick with sweat, and Quentin shivered and nodded, sinking his teeth into Eliot’s shoulder as he shifted closer. Eliot’s fingers grazed his balls, then pushed lower, pressing lightly, and the memory of Eliot inside of him flooded back. He opened his eyes and caught Eliot watching him, and he knew his friend was remembering the same thing, and then he was coming, spilling over their entwined fingers in a rush that made him light-headed. Eliot’s eyes shut and his hand sped up on his own cock, slippery from Quentin, and came seconds later.

Both men were panting as they looked at one another, and Quentin-- with some small regret-- instinctively looked at the mosaic beneath them to see if anything had changed. The blank sand stared back at him. Eliot caught what he was doing and laughed, wiping his hands on the quilt.

“Not quite the beauty of all life,” he said appraisingly, looking them both over as he laid down. He grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled him down beside him. “We’ll get there, Q.”

Quentin sighed and curled against his friend. There was nothing left to say tonight.


End file.
